


Triage

by CarverClarke (Aricle)



Category: Dead Space, Dead Space 3 - Fandom
Genre: Dead Space 3, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4518087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aricle/pseuds/CarverClarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...to surviving without tearing each other down...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triage

Dark, no light in this room, not a stasis charge unit or window or vent, thank God for that last, but it is too dark for the ears just out of dreams where the unseen is worse than most of the seen. God help him, he can hear them even now, outside of the dreams, the visions that clutch his brain in angry fingers, leaving Isaac to fight alone time and again. 'I can't stop it or buy time, it just runs me down,' angry at the thought, and he bites into his fingers, rocking, the thin mattress useless at conducting his movement, good, let him sleep, a tight smile not reaching the brown eyes. Some noise seeps through those compressed lips, that tight body, and Isaac stirs, wakes, finds him in the dark, oh so careful, just the right amount of noise and touch to let John know he is there but is not a slither from that basement at the floor of his brain, not that, ever. John knows what Isaac's fingers are telling him, he's learned, they've learned, in the meander of this love they came by in the most indirect and direct way possible, hands on each other in the dark, a hasty almost-fuck at first, but something tender to it, something more than the fire sought in the ice after that Crozier scattered them across Tau Volantis, shattered their helmets. Something become essential that once seemed luxury, and John pushes away the thought of what might happen without Isaac, the eyes and hands that understand what he is saying, hands on Isaac, pressing him to the wall, the mattress, the bench, gauging the tensile strength of armour and man even as he pushes into and against that damned darkness! Isaac, there, the hands at his shoulders, Isaac who can read what his fingers say against skin and armour even as he himself does not always know just what the fuck it is he wants to say, lapsing into the curses that pepper his speech, abandoning all other words but those and Isaac's name. Isaac's name, now, there's a word to remember, when all other words are gone.

“John?”

'Ah, there it is, his voice, that rasp, the mix of gentle and something I can't explain, and does it matter? It's here, and it's what I need'.

Hands out, on Isaac's, pulling him close to his chest, cupping his scalp, careful, no helmet here, and Isaac knows and guides him to the mattress again, and John pushes him down, still cradling his head, gentle, safely cushioned at last, and now, and now, now... his palm presses into the chest below him, mattress flattened under the weight of Isaac with the press of John's muscle and heavy armour behind, and Isaac just barely squeaks in the back of his throat. John eases up, moves a bit lower, needing to say what he has to say, the words choking in his throat won't do, aren't safe, they shatter him, words like Damara and Dylan, no, not good, not what is needed here. Thank God for that canvas of Isaac, the armour, the hands on his, where he can spell out what can't be said aloud, sometimes writing on his palm in a small whisper of panic, other times needing every centimeter of him, like that Admiral Graves needed every centimeter of her wall.

Isaac lets him whisper along his armour with a finger, shout in scrawls of his hands, and John knows this is another kind of want, walled away from the other, the heat they share, a garden not allowed to bloom inside him in these moments, never, ever, will Isaac's body be anything but his own; no matter how many words are strangling John, he doesn't take what isn't his. Instead, that armour, the worse for the wear of fingers but if that is the worst it sees, it won't be half-bad. The soldier in him shudders at this but: triage, John.

Somehow, a small blessing, they've learned a little, in pieces here and there, Isaac knows when to sleep in his armour from a look in John's eyes of the evening or whatever snatch of time the day itself might be when they get a chance to sleep, and John can accept it without that panic, grateful even, careful not to imagine the weight of what he might owe to Isaac. 'I don't ask how he knows, and he doesn't ever say'. 

John sighs, the choke of words a bit less, manages to say, “Isaac?”

“Yes?” 

“Ask me, please...” and the words are strangling him again, again, again, fuck! 

“What's your name and rank?” 

“Carver, John J., sergeant, EarthGov, “ a something extra yanked out of his brain. 

“Birthday?”

No answer and Isaac pauses, hesitates, this being a moment where he is closest to unsafe, that right mix of command and request necessary, and he is very tired, this is never something he resents but it exhausts him. 'I never want John to know what this takes out of me, the only way I'd ever want to tell him would be light years from here, from our dark scrabbling selves, this shit-hole, laughing together in a warm well-lit room, and what are the odds of that, Isaac Clarke?' 

Shaking his head, he snaps out the word again, just the barest tickle of a whip in the syllables, the hairs at his neck raising their hands in peremptory surrender, and waits.

“April 21, 2477.” 

'Good, but don't relax yet.' 

“Planet of birth?” 

“Earth.” 

“Recent ship assignment?” 

“USM Eudora.” 

“Commanding officer?” and there's a question Isaac would just as soon take off the fucking menu. 

“Norton, Robert, Captain,” and a hand slides away from Isaac's chest to his jaw, a gentle touch, and Isaac clamps down on the stray tear, John finds it before he can will it away, and Isaac sighs. 

“Where are you?”

“Fucking shit-hole,” a rusty laugh from John, “or is the right answer Tau Volantis?” 

'A joke, now there's progress, I can't remember him ever joking during one of these readings, huh', pocketing this information for another time. 

Isaac's stomach growls, and he tightens his muscles at his abdomen, ordering the hollow ache away, wanting to fill his stomach with water but that causes its own share of problems. Something, the hands easing on him, and he wonders if he can move yet, too tired to work with being shoved back down. 

'Fuck, I'm within a centimeter of being unable to do this. I need him as intact as he can be, and not because he's the soldier in this outfit, because, because' -a flash of that welcome heat between them, the only sure warmth he had found- 'because of that'. 

“Hungry, Isaac?” 

'It might not be an all-clear yet, easy, there, Isaac, but.... ah, fuck it'. 

“Yes, I don't know when I last ate, I don't remember but I haven't forgotten to feel hungry yet,” wistful. 

“Huh, and us in this den with those fucking Feeders,” John's mind scrounging for something. 

“That's a cautionary tale, if I ever heard one.” 

“No shit.” 

“So,” at a loss, words aren't usually on the table this soon after that grasping plunge from dream for John.

“Yeah, can't think with this shit threading my brain, and you- can't think for that hollow,” fingers on the concavity he knows is below Isaac's armour. “I hate this, Isaac, I want to help you, and here, it's you helping me, and that's a thankless job, repeating the same lines, not knowing what you'll get.” 

“No, not thankless, it's-” 'how do I say it, wish I could trace it on his skin, what I feel seeing the eyes clearing, his acceptance of my tangle over her, not asking, just present, and there's not a bit of just to that, it's everything to me. Is he becoming everything to me? That hasn't worked out so well for you, Clarke, that's probably a bad idea'.

“What's funny, Isaac?”

“Um,” realizing he had laughed, “I can't-, it's not-, I don't know.” 

“Ah,” the hand scooping him close, and there, that solid shoulder he likes, his pillow most nights when they aren't interrogating each other. Isaac's stomach has the nerve to interrupt, and he winces, and John takes his hand, soothing, a murmur of “there, there,” meaningless but just what Isaac wants. 'What's meaning anyway? Look at all that John has told me without a word. And, what have I told him? I don't know'.

“Isaac. All of this isn't yours. There's two of us, you know. I was wrong to tell you to try harder, I had no fucking idea just how hard you try. I read you wrong across the board,” a collision of armour against the mattress, hand releasing Isaac's, standing, fingers unclasping his armour, meticulous even in the dark. “About all I can tell you by way of this is that I see it, I see all you do.”

'Damn, sees it? When was the last time that happened, with her, who seems to see nothing but, what did John call me once? Marker Boy, yeah, Isaac: Ellie's Marker Boy,' and there's that fugitive tear returning. 

“Hey, Isaac, hey,” those fingers so incredibly gentle on his chin, his face, finding that tear again, 'and how did he do that? God, maybe he does see me, somehow, even in this dark room'. 

“I do, Isaac.”

'How the hell does he answer me when I haven't said a word?' shivering. 

“Isaac, do you trust me?” 

'Trust you? What? How does that enter into this?' so cold. 

“Fuck,” hands seeming a bit desperate now on his chin and neck, fingers pressing against his lips, to the neck again, frantic even.

John, kneeling at his side again, lifting him in his arms, settling him against the wall, a warm breath at his ear and neck, what, a kiss? 'Warm,' a greedy part of Isaac says and he is hungry.

“I know, Isaac, and- I've got something for you,” a twist in his voice Isaac can't read, despite having read volumes from what John has scribbled on his armour and hands, all these weeks. 'Fear, maybe? Don't, John, please don't fear me'.

A small scratch, that velcro tear and peel of undersuit, and Isaac wonders why John is taking off his armour now of all times. Silence now, and Isaac strains against it. A breath or two from John, oddly short, not quite that of nightmare but not your everyday respiration, lungs being asked to do something different. 

“Isaac,” that breath not working with John's voice just now, “are you still hungry?” 

“Yes,” he admits, shivering. A warm hand is on the back of Isaac's head, another at his jaw, then touching his lips, or no, not a hand but- feeling with a hand that seems a bit distant from his arm- John's penis? 

“What?” Isaac almost squawks. 

John coughs, embarrassed -'who knew a cough could sound embarrassed but it does'- “Isaac, I can't let you starve, and we are not going to eat each other. Semen does have protein in it, and, no, this is not my attempt at getting a suck and pull from you. I know it's not something you've done before, so, um, I'm as close as I can get myself,” -'considering this is extremely unsexy, dark and scared in a room surrounded by those who would gladly eat us both, but I am not going to let him die'- “it can go fast, I can just come in your mouth without going too hard so you can get something in your stomach, if that's okay with you,” fingering himself to keep hard, the frantic need to feed Isaac oddly stirring him to arousal, thank God, or this would turn strange to fucked-up fast.

Isaac really has no words now, not even the chopped-up fragments from before, his stomach aches, and the hope of food and the fear of none, of that unspeakable feed, pushes one word forth, “Yes.” 

John says, “Okay,” and that one word is crammed with something more than whatever John might have said in its place. The hand on his head is still there, petting his hair, and the other touches Isaac's lips. Isaac has no clue here, and John parts his lips, then is inside Isaac's mouth, just against his tongue, and pauses, takes hold of himself, pushing towards coming, 'and there's a great way to kill an orgasm, John, but ohhh, his tongue is so good, and, and, and, he's sucking me a bit, ah, damn, that's good, hush, John, whispering to each other is one thing but crying out at how good this feels would be fucked, defeat the whole purpose of this'- a scramble of liquid shadow behind his eyes- pressing his knuckles to his lips then taking his fingers in his mouth, sucking hard to keep his moan back. 

'This is strange, but oh,'- the vestigial suck reflex kicking in- 'something in my mouth, it's got to be sucked or spit out, and mmm, sucking, now, that's nice, saliva in my mouth, ohh, that feels good, I can move my tongue without its sticking to my mouth, when was the last time I could do that,' and he does, then a “Holy shit,” from John, and Isaac's mouth is full of thick fluid, and his stomach growls in anticipation, and he swallows, lapping, greedy, grabbing John's hips, fumbling, and John regrets that he has nothing more in him to give, 'and damn, have I ever had a blow job where that thought came to mind?' 

John pulls out and Isaac almost sobs, 'easier to starve without the taste of food on my tongue,' and John's hands are on his armour, freeing the waist catches, hand sliding through the flap of his undersuit, 'thank God, he's hard, I'm not out of options here'. 

“Lie down, Isaac,” John growls, not waiting, pushing him down hard, a hiss at his ear, “Tell me before you come, I need you to promise me you'll do that if you can,” a nod that almost hits his nose in reply. 

Spreading Isaac's legs, taking him in his mouth, licking the tip and sides, just a suck on the tip, 'not going to go for the deep fuck, not the time for that, strictly in the shallow end of this pool, John, but there's no harm in making him feel good,' a hand stroking Isaac's sac through the undersuit bunched at his crotch, spreading his legs a bit more with a wriggle of his shoulders, and Isaac just opens like some kind of, yes, 'flower, no other word, and God, I love him, I'm going to try at least as hard as he does,' Isaac's thighs suddenly clamping around John's ears, and he rasps, “John, I'm going to come,” and John seals his lips around Isaac, the little spray coating his tongue and he seals his throat, holding that precious mouthful on his tongue, fighting the need to swallow, dropping onto Isaac, whose breath is forced out under John's weight, 'damnit, suck some air in, Isaac, fuck you, John, dropping onto him, weighing as much you do,' mouth hard on Isaac's, tongue pressed to his, nothing so much as a bird feeding its young, and Isaac gets it, lapping at John's tongue, and John is swarmed with satisfaction and fear, 'he's barely got anything in him, not much semen there, and I don't know how much I have to give either. You can't think about that, John, just do what you can,' but he's thinking anyway, and Isaac's teeth are on his shoulder, and he flinches, and Isaac cries.

'Fuck, no, don't cry, Isaac, you need to keep all that moisture inside,' and the tears stop, scaring John more, 'is that all he's got?' 

Taking Isaac in his arms, settling onto him, a blanket, he holds him in place, whispering, “I love you, and I promise, I will give you more as soon as I can but I can't force it, no matter how much I want you, and I do. I have to get us out of here, Isaac, and I need your help to do that. I can't feed you for long and fight my way out of this shit-hole, so we have to go before it's too late.”

Isaac calms under John, breathing slowly, and this alone does more for John than most anything could. 

“John?” 

“Mmm,” happy to hear that voice, his name on Isaac's lips.

“Sam Ackerman.”

“Who?” 

“Sam, he escaped from here by throwing little things, sneaking past, that's what we can do. See, we've both got stasis and kinesis at full boost, I've got more stasis charges than I know what to do with, which might be enough, the way these things go, throw some little whatnots, kinesis, stasis if needed, and get out of this hell.” 

“How far to the exit?” 

“One corridor and a room.”

“Huh, well, even if it was ten meters, that's not the point here, wrong question, John. How about this? Can you walk that ten meters or whatever number it is, Isaac? I'll cover you but you've got to walk,” shaking his head at having to say this aloud.

“Hey. John, I'm not dead.” 

Something about that makes John laugh, and Isaac falls in, John hears a stir of something and kisses Isaac, silencing their laughter. The rustle of whatever fades but the kiss doesn't, pleasantly stretching something aside from fear along both of those tired bodies. Hushed lips, and tongues, nothing being said but the smack and press along those nerves. John feels himself harden, and the surge of delight makes him dizzy, and he yanks open a somatic gel, pressing it into Isaac's hand. Isaac doesn't have to be pointed there twice, and John rolls onto his back, and that slick slide of hand, 'oh, yes, please,' then breath on his damp tip, and, “Wait, Isaac.” 

Isaac fetches up, and John says, “Isaac, is that you? Is this you wanting this?”

Isaac knows, of all people in the world, 'and if that isn't reason to love him, well, I can find plenty other reasons for it, but that's a damn good one, he knows what it's like to not be the face you're wearing in the world'. 

“It is, it might not seem to be, I'll own that I'm hungry, and want to eat. This is what the plan is: I'm going to suck you off, and then we are getting up, filling our pockets with whatever we can dig out of this dark room here, and getting out. You fed me and I am not letting my end of this down.” 

“Just why that sounds like the hottest fucking proposition I do not know, but I am going to feed you, Isaac, yes, I am.” 

“Good, and I am going to suck you dry.” 

The words send a not entirely easy shiver through John, and that dark edge makes him burn hotter. “Is that so?” 

“It is, and it's me talking, even though I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“We'll scrape it together,” relieved at the familiar tone, seeing those blue eyes in his mind, that look they had when they faced down what was bleak. 

“We will,” returning to John's thighs, and John shivers, hoping this isn't desire wrapped in a nightmare.

They do indeed scrape the barrel, both of them talking themselves through, afraid of turning on the other, bereft of the sight of each other's eyes. John does come in Isaac's mouth, and it's a kind of orgasm he does not care to repeat, and Isaac tells himself something similar, and drinks, and they both gasp out a strangled thank you. 

Dressing each other, relieved by that familiar ritual, prying little chunks of something from walls and floor, readying themselves, and with nothing left but hands on faces to tell each other they are ready.

Brown imagines blue, and blue brown, and they steady, easing to the door and out. The corridor is quiet, and they reach the last room, dimly lit, the far gate a relief and yet not. Against the wall then across at the diagonal, a well-placed tap of something on the wall to their left, and they step-toss-step-toss across to the now-near gate, shadows they do not scrutinize along the walls. A red light strobes over them as John presses the latch, and they subside in confusion.

“Quarantine?” Isaac wonders, then, “the Arctic suits.” 

In then spat out, the clank and roar, and there they are, helmeted, and the light says all clear, and they clear the fuck out, a clumsy high five, stumbling into the anteroom of the building. 

John yanks back his helmet, hands on Isaac's, 'I have to see his face, I can't wait anymore'. 

“There you are, there, it feels like an eternity since I saw your face,” nothing for it but to kiss, to know they are both still breathing. They are, and it's the best news they've read on each other's bodies in some time. 


End file.
